Tuesday, April 8, 2014

To Index climbers, the iconic Lower Town Wall exudes an
almost mythical distinction; and when summing up its remarkable density,
extraordinary stone, aesthetic architecture, and agreeable proximity, it is no
great wonder most visitors focus their time here; except of course for those
hearty folk queuing up for Davis-Holland; which is bar none, the most popular
and doable of the Upper Wall routes, containing six pitches of irresistible
cracks, commodious ledges, and bolted belays –traits befitting a mega classic
of modest difficulty.To the
dismay of many, and the pleasure of a few, the local peregrines have now migrated
from their former paradise in the Cheeks, and Davis-Holland, including most of
the Upper wall is off limits till July, as the falcons repose in relative solitude, upon the suitably named big honker ledge. But, I digress.

Paul T on Like Honey

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had recurring bouts of Lower
Wall Syndrome [LWS –a pathological craving for the same Lower Wall routes,
common symptoms including compulsive repeats of Japanese Gardens etc.], my
proclivity encompassing the expanse between Princely Ambitions and Thin
Fingers. Embarrassing it is, that
given opportunity, I can innumerate piece for piece, my preferred rack for
almost any of those routes, without the slightest hesitation.A majority of these climbs I have so
ruthlessly wired, that, lying in bed, with lids sealed tight, I can replay
every intoxicating sequence, down to the slightest nuance.Call it
what you may, but said syndrome—this pattern to lap routes ad nauseam, has
finally eased its grip on me.Is
it early-middle age, hindsight, or boredom?I'm really not sure.But, somehow I’ve kicked the habit; effectively leaving me free to get off the beaten track and explore the vast unknown,
without feeling remorse for neglecting my long time addiction.Likely, what this all boils down to for
me is this —too much of a good thing, really isn’t much good at all, when it becomes
a numbing litany.But back
to the Lower Wall…

LWS amounts to little more than this.

Me on TPMV full. Andreas Schmidt photo.

Notwithstanding my raillery against LWS, there yet exist a
few uncharted lines beckoning, begging for freedom, for the gauntlet of obscurity
to be thrown down.Greg Collum,
Greg Child, Greg Olsen, Darryl Cramer, Max Dufford and friends, in the 80’s and
early 90’s were first free ascent machines, and undoubtedly a determined lot.Aid lines and mossy faces were there
for the taking –and with grit, gumption, and camaraderie, they quite literally
changed the landscape of free climbing at Index.It is mind boggling just how productive that era was, and
how nary a stone was left unturned.They have my utmost respect –just to contemplate all the scrubbing required.To fully appreciate their work: just open the back of Clint Cummins
guide to the FFA section, and imagine the time commitment.Inscribed on those pages you will see
their names over and over again.

13+ crack to Kunselman's...open project.

So what’s left to do at the LW?Well, aside from a few squeeze jobs, there in fact remain
some prominent lines– dangling on the vine so to speak, waiting patiently for harvest.Keep in mind however, that our predecessors weren’t slouches when
it came to performance; therefore, most of what remains is plain hard, or
difficult to get at, or a combination of both.
This January, I was fortunate enough to free a new route at
the Lower Wall with the help of Ryan Daudistel, my partner Pat O’Sullivan, and
a magnificent stretch of excellent weather.I named it Nobody Tosses a Dwarf.It
comprises an admixture of the 2nd pitch of Snow White and new
terrain.All things considered, it
is far more exposed than most LW routes; and while most of the harder pitches
nearby spring from terra firma, NTAD soars high above the ground, weaving a
cunning path through inspiring features. Anything but a squeeze job, it is nestled spaciously between Tuna
Boaters & Tadpole.Unlike
most of my new route experiences, this one dragged out much longer than I
could have imagined.Here is my
story.

Thin Fingers

Japanese Gardens - C. Haley

It was well nigh seven years ago that I first played around
with the idea; and while lowering off of another lap of Doctor Sniff and The
Tuna Boaters, I took some time to scope it
out.Based on guide book
descriptions, Greg Olsen had climbed a 30 foot section graded 11d just right of
Doctor Sniff, concluding his
effort at a long roof capped under-cling, that would eventually lead back into
the aid line of Snow White,
should it go free.As I lowered
down, I took time to familiarize myself with its holds and do some
scrubbing.After two hours of
strenuous effort, I succeeded in finding a solution, albeit a desperate one to
this powerful crux.At the time,
it seemed around V7/8 to me.During my exploration, I also observed some appealing real estate below,
which could provide a sweet intro to the route, should I ever come
back and get serious. For the record, there was a good hold that broke at this crux --whether this will affect the difficulty for others, I am unsure. But, for my method, it made it a bit easier.

A year later, I returned by myself.It was one of those dreary days, sprinkling on and off
throughout.After soloing up the
Great Northern Slab, gear en tow, I scrambled down to the Tuna Boater anchor, and rapped in to scrutinize the lower
section.What I found looked
promising.The aforementioned wall
had nice jugs, edges, but also some small bushes and loose blocks, that
would need to be eliminated.Much to my pleasure, an obvious belay ledge roughly two thirds up Princely Ambitions (and to the
right) would make the perfect starting belay.

Usually when working new routes, at some point my motivation
gets the better of me, and my doggedness doesn’t give in, until the dust has
settled, and either I, or the route are defeated.It was apparent that I was very psyched to do the route –but
things just wouldn’t come together; and through life circumstances, many more years
passed by.I got married, went on
a 16-month road trip, went back to school, and mostly indulged in steeper fare.In effect, I didn’t see Index much.

However, with the passing of the seasons, I've been increasingly keen to climb more granite.After sending nearly every route at my local sport cliff of
Little Si, even the walk to world wall began to smack of drudgery.Of the projects I had yet to
tick, both were nails hard and notorious seep-fests, and the effect was clearly draining my resolve. As much as I have gained
strength at Si, I was pining for something more adventurous –for a style
requiring a technical mastery, balance and subtle footwork, combined with
unrivaled scenery and a sense of anachronism, of days gone by.There was only one cure for my fever
–Index.

Ryan Daudistel.

­­­So, I called up my pal Ryan, and together we logged
around five days woring on the new route.We did our best to clean things up, scrubbing till our muscles ached,
working in tandem from two lines.Loose blocks were pried off, carpet moss uprooted, and some very small
snags were extirpated in the process.After our toils, we worked the route on TR, trying to figure out where
best to place bolts, if such were required.In all, we placed 10 bolts.It was our intention to establish a route that people would
be psyched to climb on, without neutralizing the adventurous character.The route was ready to go.

Not long after, spring arrived, and oven like temperatures
followed suit.Despite the
sultry weather, we went up anyway, being intractable to common sense.Predictably, blistering heat thwarted us, as frictional properties were outright atrocious, our soft shoe rubber fuming underfoot, oozing, rolling; our essentially good-for-nothing efforts decidedly useless. At the boulder problem, two
exceptionally rounded crimps would quickly wear down our skin without mercy,
and within several goes we’d be done for.Conditions, compounded with the circuitous nature of
the route, and the onerous task of cleaning it were serious obstacles.Back on the ground, our bodies
glistened with rank sweat, as we reclined against the wall, totally pooped.For those to whom memory recalls,
it was a ball busting summer of incessant 80-degree temps.

Climbing came to a standstill.At the beginning of July I witnessed the birth of our
daughter Hazel Sierra Gilkison.This event, combined with grad school applications took all thoughts and
allowances for climbing endeavor out the window.Also, my knee was still finicky, and all but
dependable.Mostly, I just
rehabbed, hiked, and soaked up being a Dad.

On TR- just after the BP.

Hazel Sierra Gilkison

Without further ado, I came back to the route this January,
during an impressive spell of high pressure.Kevin Newell and I spent an incredible afternoon top roping. Overhead, the sun provided just enough warmth to keep us from numbing out.With these improved conditions, my
attitude became increasingly optimistic; and we both managed the boulder problem without much fanfare.Up
on the roof, we discovered reasonable sequences –but I found it very taxing on
the arms.Lastly, we went up to
the Newest Industry anchor and TR’d the
finishing crack.This section is
definitely not 10c, as suggested in old drawings; but rather, more likely 12a,
and kind of funky to boot.Sure enough though,
Kevin made it look like 10c.

Two days later I returned with my friend Pat.We cruised up the wall, ascending
Princely to Tuna Boaters.It was
another perfect day.And according
to weather forecasts, represented a near end to a notable dry streak.I felt a bit of pressure.But, after so many years, what did it
matter?Perhaps I was just ready
to be done with it.After hanging
a couple draws at the crux, we both lowered down to the belay ledge.Taking a deep breath, I cleared my
mind, and began.

Nobody Tosses a Dwarf leads off with thirty feet of mellow climbing to get the juices
flowing.At a wide ledge, you can
sit down, turn around, and simply revel in the austere beauty, absorbing the
grandeur of alpine peaks like Baring, Index, and Merchant; or lean back and
shut your eyes –just listen: hear the subtle murmuring of the river, the
wailing shriek of train whistle, and the energetic badinage of climber jargon,
all commingling in the mountain air.After doing just that, I gave a shout, “here goes Pat, watch me!”.

On TR- roof entrance

Beta spoiler alert!Cautiously standing up, I wedged my
right index finger (palm up) into a diminishing crack, burying it to the
hilt.With a grimace, I
squeezed it into a mono under-cling.Right foot up slightly to small nub, left foot higher to obvious knob,
and then standing tall, I flattened myself out gecko style, left hand straining pinky
down into a polished slot. Calmly smearing
on next to nothing, I rapidly fired the rope into a draw dangling above.And with left foot rooting for dubious
traction below, I sprung up to snatch a square cut crimp, oriented perpendicular
to the wishbone crack, arching into nothingness.Tracking my right foot up, I placed my foot gracefully on
some rough texture, nothing more than a vague impression, and flagged my left
leg starboard, countering the ineluctable urge to barn door.For the moment of truth, and not a
second too soon, I shot my left foot up high, digging every ounce of rubber I
could manage into that slot.Left hand two finger sloper, and with my hips turned out, I fixed my gaze on a rounded edge just out of my reach; and out of this awkward stance, I exploded upwards---suhhhhhhhhh, got it!

Psyched, I climbed nice 5.10+ moves up to the
roof, clipping a couple bolts along the way.At the roof, I paused; my legs splayed out, stemming from
steep slab leftwards to the concave surface of a right facing corner, its
surface riddled in small pointy knobs.Roughly ten minutes went by, while I recharged for the roof traverse,
waiting in pensive quietude.I’d
only led across the roof once or twice earlier in the year.And, situated there, at the beginning
of it, I was reminded that I hadn’t figured out exactly how I was to let go and
clip.

At the edge of the roof, a convex carpet of slab joins, and
slides under, like the confluence of two continental plates.Little space remains where the two
meet.With hesitation, I
ebbed out to the thick of it, feet plastered underneath, fingers searching nervously, looking for
something to grasp; all the while, the roof, a two foot rostrum like projection
pushed back against my chest, with my arms all but invisible, straining heartily out of sight.Very carefully, I worked my way across, in a vain a attempt to remember smears, positions, and choreography, which in my current state of mind, weren't one bit of help. Clipping was awkward on the fly, but I managed it, barely. With biceps burning,
I was nearing the mid way point, when a foot slipped, nearly sending me into
space.But I held on.Doubt started to gnaw at me,
eroding my fragile confidence, and undermining my limited provision of composure.Far below, I could hear Pat cheering
me on; and somewhere in my psyche, I was able to dig into reserves of strength.With one last effort, I succeeded in latching something meaty, a section where the crack opened up.Repositioning myself, I conformed my right hand into a hand-jam, got my
feet up high, and realized I now had several feet of 5.11 to go, which would
deposit me at the last rest.After
a brief respite, I charged on with feet cranked high, arms digging deep, and in
utter desperation, and then I was there, at the other end of the roof, perched
in the most outrageous position, forearms totally spent, my pulse pounding at
breakneck speed.

What I haven’t described yet, was the wind.On this robust January day, a potent gale was en force, and as I stood there, shaking out my arms, I was nearly knocked off by a strong gust.It was pretty exciting to hang on in the face of such elemental pressure. With a prolonged rest behind me, I signaled to Pat that I
was casting off. Separating me from the finish lay 30 feet of bizarre crack climbing.

On TR- the finish.

Although I knew the finish to be easier than the climbing
below, I realized it was just tenuous enough for me to randomly slip off, if I
wasn’t in the zone.Left hip in,
right hip in, yellow alien high with long sling, back to left hip in, and now a
final crux.It was here that I had
a momentary crisis. In disbelief, I gaped down at my shoes, and observed one of the laces dangling, blowing in the breeze.In my present position,
I was pressing all of my weight on my right shoe at the edge of the crack,
which was quite rounded; all the while, my shoe was relaxing its grip on my
foot, and I watched in disbelief as my shoe began to slide closer and closer to
nothingness. Then the train came by suddenly, blaring its strident whistle, just as the wind
decided to rush in, and nearly blew me over.I was a wreck.Pat was by now out of view, which didn’t calm my nerves one iota.But, being so close to finishing this
epic route, I mustered the gumption to carry on.From my position, I reached up cramming one tip of one
finger into the crack, then I karate chopped my feet up and tenuously lurched
to a bomber finger lock.Cautious not to trip on my laces, I placed one small stopper, and clawed my way to the anchor.

While NTAD isn't cutting edge by any stretch of the imagination, it does offer some decently strenuous climbing, and provides an engaging journey for those up to the task.Big thanks to Greg Olsen for getting the ball rolling, Ryan for the work, Kevin for his psyche, and Pat, who was kind enough to belay me!Hopefully, some other people will be
inspired to head up there and give it a go.

Regarding its grade, it felt around 12d to me, give or take. Who knows though, perhaps it is only like 11d, like everything else at Index -wink. Officially, I'm calling it 5.12, so nobody thinks I'm a fluffer.In comparison, I thought it harder than routes
like Numbah Ten, Narrow Arrow Direct, Stern Farmer, and Power Horse. Please, take all this information with a grain of salt, or a heaping spoonful if you prefer.

Funny, when I sat down to write this, I was thinking of no more
than a few paragraphs; just enough text to capture the essence of my
experience, and describe the overall process. Major fail.
On a personal note, after being accepted to three out of
four DPT programs, to which I applied, I’ve decided to attend University of
Puget Sound, beginning this September! I feel so blessed and thankful for this opportunity to pursue the field of Physical Therapy. Big thanks to Chris Allen for helping me shape my career vision, for allowing me to be his shadow, and for his kindness.Grad school will be an exciting new chapter for me! Tiffany, Hazel and myself are looking forward to checking out Tacoma, meeting new friends, and staying in one
place for more than a year. For right now, I'm taking my last prerequisite, third quarter physics. Also, I had minor arthroscopic knee surgery a couple weeks back. My surgeon cleaned out some likely culprits and I should be back to full speed soon. It is going to be a great year!

Friday, March 28, 2014

Over the last couple decades I’ve managed to climb more than
work, placing greater emphasis on free time, than cultivating my work
resume.Within the tidal flow of
seasons, I’d regularly disappear on month long road-trips, to escape our pervasively depressing rain, and explore new areas; and while savoring exciting
destinations like The Needles, Joshua Tree, The South Platte, Yosemite,
Cathedral Ledge, Little Cottonwood, Squamish and countless others, I was often
reminded of one thing:Index is
about as good as granite gets.Admittedly, I’m reluctant to stamp superlatives like “best”; since this
is merely opinion, affected by my own bias and quirky metric.But, nevertheless, after many a
pilgrimage, I can state that Index is my favorite, and for a number of reasons.Here are some.

The Upper Wall & Cheeks

Gorgeous surroundings:Like clockwork, almost every winter
there are periods of high pressure, displacing the tyranny of leaden skies,
dank, and drizzle, which by and large reign supreme.Overhead, oppressive gray transcends into electric blue, and the softened rays of a southern sun, paint the Skykomish valley with
a revealing brush, highlighting a tapestry of rounded corners, arêtes and
mesmerizing texture, hillsides peppered in glowing evergreens.Thanks to its Southern aspect, the
walls dry quickly, and with a vigorous SE wind, can dry out surprisingly fast,
yielding excellent winter climbing conditions.It is during these lucky streaks that I find myself most
spellbound by Index.Between
the months of December and March, Mt. Index is absolutely plastered in a wintry
wardrobe –its ice chutes, towering buttresses, fluted ribs and colossal scale
dominating the southern expanse.From the town walls, one need just turn around, and breathe in the
awe-inspiring relief and tonic like aesthetic.

Wham!

Fine Grain stone:
Granite at Index is strikingly fine grained.So what, you say?Firstly, it is very gentle on the skin.For many of the crack climbs, this readily increases the
enjoyment of sinking those perfect jams, like the ones found just above the
crux on Thin Fingers; whose dimensions are like a fine wine; and so every time I go back to them, they seem to get better and better.But for those equally prolific face
climbs, it frankly just hurts less pulling on edges here than when compared to
places like Joshua Tree, a place proliferated with flesh sawing crystals the size of
tick tacks.Additionally, the fine
grain, which is almost like coarse sandstone makes the perfect canvass for
footwork; and it is not unusual to find countless variations regarding smearing
and edging possibilities. In
the winter, the rock almost feels like Velcro.This quality lends dance like feeling to the overall
movement; with exception to times when one is thrutching some desperate mantle,
foot cranked up at head level, trying not to tip over backwards, while
essentially doing a one legged squat.

Even Steven

Unique crux moves:Years ago, a good friend and brilliant
climber, said bluntly, “Index is nothing but a circus trick”.At the time, he was on his way to that
magic 5.14 grade, and was dedicated to acquiring a manifold skill set; which
included friction slabs, cracks, boulders, and fingery test pieces.His
premise proposed that hard routes at Index have very little correlation to
climbing hard anywhere else, and was therefore an end in itself.Over the years, I’ve often reflected
back on this statement, trying to weigh it in light of my own experience.After consideration, I think the idea
that Index doesn’t instill usable skills is balderdash.

Ultimately, when you compare crux moves of routes like Numbah
Ten, Stern Farmer, Blue in the Face, and Narrow Arrow Overhang, you will find highly specific movement, that
honestly, are not likely to be encountered anywhere else. But, that said, I
think climbers learn lots about balance, friction limits, problem solving,
bizarre flare chicanery, and learning how to go for it on terrain where natural
gear or fall potential seem scary.

The Iron Horse Slot.

These things can be applied.If you do well at Index, I think other granite areas will become more
transparent (the caveat being actual meat and potatoes crack climbing).While
there is a flow and cadence to the climbing, the crux moves are often
unrivaled puzzlers; and as a result, I’m never bored because individual routes
often have some unique & bizarre crux move. It is interesting to observe
the fact that over half of the pitches at Index are fully bolted sport routes.
But, you won’t often see the Little Si sport phene out here, presumably because it
is just too slabby, and certainly not because there are too few bolts.

Heaps of challenging routes: Although Index is known for its
sand-baggery, and I am inclined to rant here...let's just leave this notorious subject for an independent
entry. Suffice it to say,
there are loads of technically difficult routes sprinkled amongst the many
walls.And, this winter, as I’ve
analyzed the pages of Clint’s and Darryl’s guide books, and new routes reported
on Mountain Project, I came to the conclusion that I’ve only scratched the
surface of Index climbing.

The Old Bus. RIP.

Thin Fingers.

This has me all fired up!Seriously, I feel like a kid in a candy store.Like many, the bulk of my experience is
circumscribed to the Lower Wall-- the easy goods.By easy, I don’t mean a walk in the park, I mean ease of
access, convenience.Let’s be
honest, nobody breaks a sweat approaching the lower wall, which is one of the
reasons it is so universally popular, aside from the fact it is stacked with
awesome routes.But, now that I’ve
done most of the routes that catch my fancy here, I’ll have to start hiking for
new route experience.

In my giddiness, I’m torn between stoke to try old routes
like Rise and Fall, Technicians, and Good Girls -- versus scouting for new routes, and examining abandoned projects,
to which there are a significant number.Despite my psyche, I know it will take more than words to start ticking
these climbs.5.11, 5.12 –which is
the hallmark grade for Index often takes me lots of work.Conditions, dirt, irrational fear,
flying objects, runouts, humbled ego, reaches, and partner availability are
all factors.I love that about this place.

Friday, March 21, 2014

With the life of a stay at home Dad, I’ve had ample time for nostalgia recently, reminiscing on
the perfect fine grain of Index, and sifting through dormant memories of my
origins as a climber.Though I now
much prefer the inherent challenge of flawless vertical rock, I shall never
forget the role that early alpine climbs played in my development.

It was during the summer of 95’ that I cut my newborn
climber teeth, cavorting around with Bart Paull, my first mentor.He was all of fourteen at the time, and
needed a partner with wheels to transport him to his preferred
environment.Naturally, like any
Mercer Island lad worth his salt, Bart existed on a strict diet of
climbing—consuming it for breakfast, lunch & dinner.Absolute possession had laid hold on
Bart at an early age; and by the time we met, one auspicious day at the UW
rock, he had already scaled miles of water ice, multiple el cap routes, and
probably hatched plans to climb everything in the known universe.It was an ideal partnership for someone
like me; who saw a vast wilderness of adventure in my back yard, but didn’t
know the first thing about tying knots or jugging lines.

One of my better looks.

In hindsight, I imagine he saw more than mere
transportation, and surely beckoned to the Siren call of our Gilkison family
chariot.At that time, I was
rolling a copper-tone colored Honda Civic hatchback, known by my friends as---
‘the chic magnet’, bequeathed to me following the demise of the infamous
Red-door Corolla, which I ignominiously totaled, just three days after turning
16.Already, the chic magnet had attained near
fame by making the trip from Steven’s Pass to Shoreline in sub-hour time,
passing more than 74 cars along Highway 2, blitzing through towns like Goldbar,
Startup, and Sultan at blistering speed, early Rush blaring out of the stereo, and me
totally unconcerned; my teenage mantra being-- ‘no cop, no stop’, under-girding
my every tap of the brake and plunge of the accelerator.At the age of 17, I was invincible,
like most of my peers.A quick
study, Bart knew that minimal time would be wasted en route to our climbing
objectives.

During that glorious summer there were no hindrances,
responsibility, or other obligations…other than get outside, and pick something
cool to climb.I’d recently
recovered from a terrible case of pneumonia and nearly missed my high school
graduation.I think my parents
felt I could use some unfettered relaxation before starting college classes in
the fall, to rejuvenate and convalesce.On a sympathetic note, they implored me to refrain from work, and rather
encouraged me to have fun and explore my newfound passion.

Needless to say, Bart also fell into the same carefree camp;
and without further ado, he charged at the opportunity to drag me around the
Cascades, teaching me when necessary, & pouring fuel onto my otherwise
combustible enthusiasm.Spurred on
by Bart’s redoubtable prowess, and my admitted inexperience, our youthful
concept of immortality was stretched thin on more than one occasion.Some sobering misses and perceived
brushes are forever emblazoned in my memory from that first summer:

West Ridge of Forbidden Peak

In late June, I climbed my first mountain.Up until then, I’d been to the top of
some peaks; but those had been accomplished by means of relatively
straightforward trail systems.Bart’s plan would far eclipse those experiences because for the first
time, I was actually going to utilize those few items in my alpine quiver.Ice axe, helmet, crampons, shiny and
still gummy in places, where I’d recently peeled off the REI stickers, were all
carefully stowed away in my Lowe Alpine Sirocco pack, ready for action.We rolled out early to Marblemount,
diving into the heart of the North Cascades, and dropped by the Ranger Station
to procure permits for Boston Basin.

The ranger looked at us from behind his fortress of maps and
official insignia with curiosity, first at Bart ---a sturdy built 14 year old
with dark shaggy hair, brimming with youthful wit and laconic retort; and then
down at me, a diminutive 14 year old looking sidekick, obviously out of his depth,
overly eager, and tractable to the merest suggestion.In due time, the rangers lengthy speech came to a close, and
we were granted permits, albeit with perceived reluctance.As we sauntered out of the station, I
like to imagine the ranger sitting there in calm repose, pondering our
intentions with a concerned air; him speculating whether our parents knew were
we were, a couple lost boys with delusions of alpine grandeur.

Back at the helm, we careened off the main highway onto the
Cascade River Road, and were soon kicking up a contrail of dust far into the
tunnel like canopy above, and playing the best of road games, dodge the
pot-hole.Over twenty miles later,
we were parked at a non descript pullout, with a couple other cars there to
mark an otherwise homogenous looking stretch of road.Once saddled up, we were off.

I’ll never forget that first time I put on a big pack.Back then, I could still hear my high
school weight lifting coach Dmitri’s reproachful words, “Gilkison, you got
chicken legs, go do some squats!”As teenagers just discovering the marvelous transformation afforded by
weight training, what were legs when compared to a ripped set of abs,
cannonball biceps, and an enormous chest?We thought it was obvious what girls cared most about.Needless to say, I did not make time
for those squats.Consequently,
with my burdensome load, and an approach that stretched to the heavens, all but
a vertical staircase of tree roots and brush, I several times recanted the day
I eschewed coach Dmitri’s advice.Our ascent was slow, sweaty, and short of daylight—and by the time we
left the forest, pitch-dark conditions made locating the Boston Basin campsites
all but impossible.We settled
upon some forlorn knoll after a vain search for the official site.

It was still dark when our alarm clock sounded its strident
call, erasing an otherwise perfect sleep.I’ve never been too keen on getting up early.But, as we began our ascent over small snowfields &
remnants of glacial ice, I couldn’t help but marvel at the silky purple sky
waxing over the horizon, and the ice cloaked peaks standing in stark relief all
around.Seeing something like that
for the first time is truly moving.Since then, I’ve seen lots of similar mornings, but none remains with me
like that first purple haze, an indelible mark upon my early consciousness, of
beauty and mind-boggling clarity.

Closer now, Forbidden loomed over us as we inched our way
up, a peak of remarkable symmetry, and seemingly sculpted like the Great Pyramid of
Giza.We were just gaining a steep
couloir as the sun grazed over the upper ridge on Forbidden, hitting
Johannesburg in a resplendent sheen of orange light.We both climbed tandem in the slot, circumventing a large
crevasse at the base, and moving quickly up the 45-degree slope.The snow was quite frozen and our
crampons bit surely and easily into the slopes of the chute.

After a few hundred feet of steep climbing Bart stopped,
waiting for me to gain his level.I climbed up to him and was a few feet below him when I halted to catch
my breath.He asked if I could
pass the camera to him.Casually, I dug the shaft of my axe into the snow, releasing the safety
strap so I could more easily maneuver the camera from its bag.Once in my hands, I couldn’t quite
reach up to make the hand-off, so I kicked one foot firmly up hill in the snow,
and then the next. From here I was just barely able to deliver it to Bart. This
is where I had one of those “why did I do that?” moments.As I began lowering the last of my
higher foot placements, to get back down to my axe, I hesitated.The crampon spikes on my higher foot
dug into some of the webbing anchored to the rear of my harness, and for one
tenuous moment, I stood there one legged, wobbling with my hands oscillating in
the air, sort of like the karate kid doing the fabled crane move to win the
championship match.Only, I was
standing near the top of an icy chute, hemmed in by solid rock walls, and at
the bottom no gym mat, but a sizeable crevasse, its gaping maw ready to swallow
me whole.Those seconds were
interminably long, my mind awash in trepidation over which direction I was to
go.And then, like a tree loosened
from its roots, I toppled over, backwards.

In my mind, that was one of the scariest moments of my
life.Sliding backwards, my speed
increased, as I managed to turn myself right side up.But then, my crampons bit into the snow, sending me into a
spectacular flipping cartwheel.For seventy feet I rag dolled; and during each moment, sent screams ricocheting
in all manner of direction.Just
when I thought all was lost, I felt the rope begin to pull on me, slowing my
fall, and putting me in an arcing swing, my face dragging against the cold ice.Then all was silent.

From my vantage point, I strained up to see Bart bent over
in a self-arrest position.To this
day, I am in awe that I survived that fall; and forever thankful that Bart was
up to the task, and that I only weighed around 100 pounds back then.Suffering only an abrasion to my face,
I pulled myself up, and scampered back up to Bart under a watchful boot axe
belay.

West Ridge.

With shaken confidence, we recommenced, and shortly made the
ridge crest.Surreal vistas opened
up.Huge glaciers and desolate
peaks punctuated an alpine wilderness of sublime proportions.Without further detail, we climbed to
the summit, and somehow I lost my helmet and ice axe on the ridge, both
cascading down the NE face, bouncing and banging for thousands of feet down to the
glacier below.I’m sure they are
still there.But, at least I am
not.In addition, during the
descent we were caught in a terrible lightning storm that came out of nowhere.For ten minutes, I felt like we were
about meet another unsavory ending.A different party had joined us in our descent by now, and through
collaborative efforts, I was able to safely descend the snow and ice, and
regain the haven of our camp.Still, I can just see that Climbing Ranger sitting there, ruminating on
our whereabouts, lips upturned in a wry smile, and head slowly shaking side to
side.

Mt. Rainier:

That July, along with Bart and his father Dan, we climbed
the iconic Mt. Rainier.Our climb
up the Kautz Ice chute proceeded without incident.But, during our last night on the mountain, spent at Camp
Hazard, things got wild. Sometime in the dark of night, a front slammed into
Rainier.70 mile per hour gusts
came out of nowhere.Outside our
sheltered cocoon we could hear the ebb and flow of the wind, surging at times
with the crescendo of a freight train. With a runaway imagination, I pictured
the end, as I observed our Bibler Bombshelter begin to flatten.Huddled in the middle, I sat spellbound
as Bart and his Dad braced their bodies against the walls, straining in a
valiant effort to rebuff the tempest.Though I didn’t sleep a wink that night, the storm eventually subsided,
and my tensions eased with the first rays of morning.Crawling out into the cold alpine air I beheld the most
impressive cloud I’d ever laid eyes upon.Stacked directly over the summit was a six-layered pancake, comprised of
saucer shaped lenticulars.It was
breathtaking.

Camp Hazard

Descending the Turtle amidst the tempest.

Mt. Shuksan:

Between trips to Leavenworth, the Enchantments, and Index,
we managed to squeeze in one last mountain before I shipped out for my first
semester of College.

Me on the North Face

High on the North Face of Mt. Shuksan that August, we were
close to finishing the steep 50-degree slope, which forms the crux.Ice riddled peaks enveloped us in every
direction, the American Border peak rising salient amidst the vanguard of
formidable giants.Craning our
necks up, we stared down, or up rather, at our final obstacle.Above us loomed an ominous schrund
blocking our line.We were
standing on a somewhat level shelf at the bottom, with a meaty 60-foot pile of
rope amassed from our simul-climb of the lower face, lying piled between
us.Each of us had an ax and an
ice tool at the ready.

Bart was the leader; and hitherto, had used a combination of
snow flukes and the occasional boot axe belay to protect our progress.Confidently, He ambled along the lower
shelf to access a steep snow bridge at the crevasses far end.Temperatures were rising, and the
formerly perfect neve’ was beginning to soften and ball up under our crampons,
ebbing away at the safety of our running belay.Soon, Bart was 30 feet out left and 15 uphill, looking quite
the part, when his feet suddenly lost purchase, and for a moment were furiously
doing the running man, legs pumping up and down, groping for traction in a
frightful panic.In near slow
motion, I stood aghast as I witnessed my precocious partner begin his fateful
slide, axes slicing uselessly through the wet snow, timely expletives bootless
against the forces of gravity.His
velocity increased, & despite my disbelief, I knew this was extremely
bad.Bart outweighed me by at
least 50 pounds and with no belay in place, I prepared for the inexorable
downward pull; in short, for our imminent demise.

Hiking the Lake Anne trail back to the car.

In a flash of desperation, I considered hurling myself into
the crevasse to arrest Bart’s decent.If I failed to act, we would both likely plummet down the face and
launch off a 2000-foot cliff, ending our climbing day, and my burgeoning tick
list, to which this was to be my third mountain climb.Impulsively (because jumping into a
crevasse is easier said than done), I dropped myself into a self-arrest stance
and closed my eyes.Time stood
still.Minutes passed, and I was
still there, my heart in my throat.Faintly, I heard my name being called.Cautiously, I stood up, adrenaline amplifying my
senses.To my astonishment, I saw
Bart extricate himself from a hole, thirty feet below his former position.He had only slid a short ways before
falling into a separate & smaller crevasse, landing on a snow bridge ten
feet down, and serendipitously, saving our lives.--- Somewhat shaken, we went
on to climb the false summit, got lost in the towering serac field of the
Crystal Glacier, and found our way back two days later via the Fischer Chimney
route, two bedraggled youths, wide eyed, but already hatching new plans.

August came to a close, and I drove south to California, to
attend college.Though Bart and I
climbed several more times in the ensuing years, we slowly drifted in different
directions, he more into mountain adventure climbing; while I developed an attraction
for free climbing and sun warmed granite, something quite abundant down in
California.But, I will never
forget that amazing summer learning the ropes, leapfrogging from adventure to adventure.

Incidentally, I originally sat down to write about a new
route I recently completed at Index after seven years of dabbling.But, I suppose I’ll leave that for
another entry.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Considering the seven months since my last post, I find it
hard to suppress the latent intimidation lurking beneath the surface of this
blank canvas.After such a long hiatus, it is difficult re-approach that creative helm, knowing I bare my life in such an accessible digital universe. Somehow, I perceive the sum of my
experiences have amalgamated into a homogenous mishmash.Likely, this is because so much has
happened since my last post, and I’m nervous that my words might spin into a
torrent of gratuitous and mundane drivel. Much happened in 2013; and I suppose it is
only logical to start with a low point, its malignant shadow still manifest,
but growing dimmer with every setting of that magnificent fiery orb, which
ironically, we’ve seen a lot of here this January.

As I vividly recall, 2013 commenced loud and clear as my MCL ripped apart while working a deep drop knee on Migrana Profunda, a sport route in Suirana
Spain.Following two months of
standard protocols including the entire arsenal of HIRICE and bracing, my doc cleared me to resume physical operations, and my normal active
lifestyle.Within a week I began
trail running again in the 3 to 7 mile range; which in hindsight, might have
been too much too soon.At the
time, we had moved into a apartment near downtown Issaquah and were
situated at the doorstep to miles of excellent trails up on Tiger, Squak and
Cougar Mountain.Things were
starting to click and it felt exhilarating to be exercising.The MCL area was a bit tender still,
but tightening up bit by bit.Honestly, I was so enthusiastic to be mobile again, that I consciously
chose to obfuscate that incipient yet growing twinge under my knee-cap,
which in recent past had immobilized me for several months.

To bring this to a head, I went out for alacritous six mile
trail run on Tiger, including a quad-pounding decent and found myself limping
home, writhing in sea of self-pity, dejection and palpable trepidation.Now, I could digress into the gory
medical details that include MRI findings and other depressing diagnostics, but I'll spare you, the reader.I’ve known for
years that my left patella tracked laterally, that my VMO is the size of a
raisin, and that my IT band is tighter than a taught slack-line.But, when you’re an athlete and
everything seems to be working fine, it
is more convenient to believe that performance and body function are immutable
qualities.

Much as Neo in the Matrix, I’ve been caught in a
Dreamworld.In my dreams, my body
moves like it did 20 years ago when I began climbing at 18.From my minds perspective, I am the
same person, infused with similar vigor, and a desire to trump my own
best.Each day I get up to embrace
challenge with renewed strength; and am motivated by a redoubtable will to seek
the boundaries of my abilities.These strengths (or foibles) are intrinsic to my personality.However, I have changed.Or, closer to the truth, I have adapted
to new parameters.

Like the aftermath of a bucket of ice cold Gatorade poured ignominiously over
my head, my eyes are shockingly open now. Undoubtedly, I have sobered up to the reality that time unravels all, and
that I must temper my innate penchant for performance with a circumspection for
self preservation, keeping one hand on the throttle, but another prudently around the
brake.

During the last 10 months, I’ve worked assiduously towards
correcting my patellar tracking problem.Typically, I spend 2-5 hours a week engaged in specific exercises to
strengthen hip flexors, adductors, abductors, VMO and the like.It is a slow road rife with inherent
uncertainty.But to my benefit,
the curve has mostly been a positive one, with occasional episodes of
regression.But now, I’d say I’m
75% back to normal and stoked to put this chapter to rest.

Aside from the knee debacle, there are a few other
noteworthy life developments.Last
summer after taking the GRE, I applied for grad school!It was an onerous process.But, after a few weeks of drudgery, I
managed to apply to four different Doctor of Physical Therapy Programs, two in
state, and two out.I’ve been
accepted to one program already, and am currently waiting to hear back from
three others.It is mind-boggling
just how competitive PT schools are.There were almost 1200 applicants for the school I just got into, with
80 student slots available.---
After spending most of my life working a farrago of jobs including acting,
outdoor retail, wilderness instructor, ski patroller, photographer, and
carpenter, I’m convinced this will be the last suit I’ll ever wear; and I’m incredibly psyched to know this is really happening.Many thanks to Mom, Dad, and my
supportive wife Tiffany for inspiring me to stick with it.

Far and away the most significant change in my life recently occurred on July 3rd.It was
on this auspicious day that Tiffany Dawn Gilkison gave birth to our daughter
Hazel Sierra Gilkison, just over 7 pounds.She has been an unequivocal source of joy and recrudescence
in our lives.Hazel is now 7
months old, and rolling all over the place. Soon she will be crawling...It has been my
responsibility and pleasure to be a full time stay at home dad for the last
four months.To be fair, some days
are harder than others.But, I
wouldn’t trade this for anything.Our time is especially precious because I’m about to head into an
intensive and time consuming graduate program.

Lastly, the skiing/climbing shop I’ve worked at sporadically
over the last 14 years, Marmot Mountain Works, is officially going out of
business March 2nd.This place
offered me one of my first out of college jobs and it will be missed.I’ve met a lot of great people over the
years here, and many adventures started right in that dark old basement. Au revoir Marmot dungeon.